xp_logs | The First Rule of Fight Club

Betsy walked casually into the fencing hall. As she prepared herself -- physically and mentally -- for the sparring match, she surveyed the students walking by, practicing amongst themselves. How pitiful, Elisabeth thought. Keeping up with this charade was so hard. Really.

As the weeks progressed, she felt her emotions shift from a willingness to help to apathy. It wasn't until she received the email from the little badger that she felt intrigued by anyone.

Logan walked in a few minutes later, carrying two carefully sheathed and well-tended katana. He spotted Elisabeth immediately and approached her, offering a katana -- the one she'd stolen -- with a slight bow of his head.

Bowing in response, Elisabeth took the katana, unsheathing it from his carriage. "How I've missed you." She turned her gaze to Logan. "Are you sure about this?"

He nodded, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah. You?" He unsheathed the katana with an ease that betrayed years of use and grasped the hilt firmly, putting the sheath down on the floor, just to the left of the mat they stood upon.

"Oh yes." Elisabeth threw the sheath onto the floor. Rolling her shoulders, she took her defensive stance. Her elbows bent over her head, she held onto the katana and waited for him to strike.

Something wasn't right, something didn't click. She shouldn't be so confident. But he couldn't bring himself to care. He stepped forward, striking low and fast.

Elisabeth dropped her right shoulder and blocked the blow. Interesting stance, she mused. He had a familiar fighting style, for an oaf. Elisabeth pushed forward and countered his movement.

He stepped back, the clash of steel on steel signaling that he'd stopped her thrust. She'd improved since he last sparred with her.

Pulling back, Elisabeth centered the sword in front of her. She flicked her wrist, the air whistling as the sword cut through it. Elisabeth raised her eyebrows at him, obviously amused.

He comforted himself with the thought that, even if he'd underestimated her, she couldn't do serious damage. Stepping back, he nodded in acknowledgement of her skills, centering his blade and settling his stance once more.

She feinted a few times, gauging his skill. Waiting for the right moment to lunge. While she watched his stance, she paid equal attention to his feet. Logan's intention would be revealed, if inadvertently.

She just needed an in, an opening.

He didn't bother watching her stance, just her eyes. She didn't smell nervous, which grated on him. He shifted his feet, readying himself, then thrust high and to the left, deliberately missing her, testing.

Elisabeth caught the movement and brought the blade up, blocking him. "Come on, Logan. Stop playing games. We both know I can handle it. Or do you play like a wounded child because you fear me?"

He growled, letting her get under his skin for just a moment, before pushing it away. He slid his blade along hers, forcing them down. "Do you wait for your prey because you can't hunt?"

"No, it comes to me because it has no other choice." She bent her arm, disengaging from his hold. Circling him, she remarked. "Do you consider me prey?"

He allowed her to lead, circling as well. Looking at her closely, he replied, "Not yet."

"Good." She lunged forward, committing herself to a series of blows, each one consistently stronger than the last. The veracity of her attack was unparalleled, as she found an opening and swiped Logan across his chest.

She stopped, staring at the trail of blood dripping from his wound.

She wiped her brow. "Sorry about that, I must've gotten carried away."

"First blood," he growled, the scent filling his head. The small amount of pain and the smell of blood pushed him, shoved at him, and he fell over the edge as the wound healed itself.

He dove at her, striking hard and fast, but barely breaking a sweat.

Elisabeth cartwheeled backwards, avoiding the strike. She crouched low, the katana blade sitting comfortably in her hands.

Her lips slightly upturned, she caught each strike with confidence. "I see you don't take apologies well."

Logan bared his teeth; it was not a smile. He did not, however, seem nervous in the least. He resettled his grip on the katana's hilt, cracking his neck and watching her for a moment.

The heat of the fight flowed through him, the scent of blood still heavy in his mind. He darted forward, feinting left and slashing right.

The tip of the blade barely missed her as it slashed through her sweatshirt top. Elisabeth unzipped the top, removing it with one hand and throwing it aside. She wore a white tank top, covered in sweat.

Adrenaline shooting through her veins, she raised her hands and brought both down as she struck. The clang of metal reverberating through the hall, as the fight progressed. This was no longer a sparring session.

He rolled his shoulders back -- crack, crack, snap -- and bounced lightly on his toes. His eyes narrowed and he watched her hands, eyeing the way the weight of the blade settled in her left hand, supported by her left arm.

It seemed odd. She'd been right-dominant when they'd sparred last. It wasn't important now, though, so he let the thought go, driving his body forward, the katana aimed at her arm, then, at the last second, at her thigh.

Her purple eyes tightened as his bones cracked. Balancing on the balls of her feet, she took in his gaze. Elisabeth extended her arm, swiping at his forearm, barely missing the skin.

Elisabeth dropped to the ground, scissored her legs, and made direct contact with Logan's ankles, bringing him down. As he fell, her blade came up, slicing his left shoulder.

"You'd best focus on me, Wolverine, and not which hand I favor," she said, before drawing her tongue along the sharp steel, tasting his blood.

Adamantium claws tore through his skin at the same moment that his knees hit the mat. They'd only unsheathed an inch or two of their full length, but blood pooled on the mat from his self-inflicted wounds when he retracted them. He'd been careless; his katana was on the mat in front of him, no longer in his grasp.

He raised his head to meet her gaze and watched her tongue work over the blade; his eyes darkened and he growled through bared teeth.

Already back on her feet, Elisabeth stood erect, studying her partner on the ground. And when her gaze met his, she bowed back in respect. "We do not have to continue if you are not up to it."

"I can understand that a man of your age may not be up to the challenge."

Logan growled in response, his ability to speak drowned out by the thrumming sound of blood flowing through his veins -- and hers.

He tipped his head back, baring his throat as if in submission, making no move to reach for his fallen katana.

Elisabeth slowly backed up, giving Logan a wide enough berth to rise. She then maneuvered herself to his side, where his sword lay.

She balanced the blade on her own and with a quick lift, sent it into the air. "Do you wish to continue, or do you concede defeat?"

Her eyes twinkled at him, daring him to withdraw.

He slipped easily to his feet, catching the falling sword by the blade and swinging it down hard, the hilt slamming into her right knee. He released the sword as soon as it struck her, blood pouring from his palm.

She faltered slightly and he pushed forward, into her blade. The force of it drove her to the mat and he followed her down, eight inches of steel protruding obscenely from his back. His claws thrust into the floor, centimetres from her right ear.

"You're dead."

[Those in the Fencing Hall later might notice deep cuts in one of the mats; the cuts went so deep as to leave three-inch-deep gashes in the hardwood floor, necessitating, I'm sure, replacement of a few of the floorboards. Also, a trail of blood leading from that same mat, out the door as far as the stairwell before it dwindles and stops.]